


Buried Profound

by Nestra



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-22
Updated: 2003-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As bronze may be much beautified // By lying in the dark damp soil, // So men who fade in dust of warfare fade // Fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried Profound

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jill C.
> 
>  
> 
> Notes: Thanks to my betas, who know who they are. Title and summary from an unfinished poem by Wilfred Owen.

From the moment he opens his eyes, he knows that everything has changed, and that's the moment he begins measuring his life in firsts. 

The first thing he knows is that he's not in prison any more. His cell was dark, and every night he went to sleep expecting to awake to the same dim shapes that made up his world. But wherever he is, it's so bright it hurts like a headache, and there's a woman standing next to him. 

Gurney. He's on a gurney, restrained at arms and legs. He opens his mouth and asks his first question. 

"English, Michael," she says. "I know you speak it." 

"Where am I?" he repeats. 

"This is Section One. Your new home." 

"Home?" 

"Yes. Or if it makes you more comfortable, think of us as your new employers. We can make use of your special talents." Her words pretend to be kind, but her eyes do not. A different kind of prison, then. And a different kind of jailer. She is beautiful, and he mistrusts her for that. 

"I'm going to unfasten your restraints now." She speaks with an even tone, as if he's a wild animal that needs to be trained. Perhaps he is. "I suggest you don't try anything stupid. If you run, you won't get far, and you won't like what happens when we catch you." She keeps saying "we", and he wonders who else she is talking about. He wants to see. He won't run. 

She leads him through corridors to a large open area where people teem like insects. No one stops to look at him, and he understands that he is simply another in a series of new faces. He is not special. He is not remarkable. This is his future. 

"What about my sister? My friends?" 

"We're your family and friends now, Michael." He doesn't like the sound of his name in her mouth, hard consonants and flat vowels. He doesn't understand who she is or what she does in this new home of his, but she seems to be feared. He is not the only reason that no one looks up. 

Glass windows hover above the open area. A man stands motionless behind them, looking down at the activity like God on high. 

"Who is that?" It will be the last question he asks for two years. 

The woman doesn't even look up. "Operations."  
 

* * *

  


The first thing he learns is that his life belongs to Section One. They have picked him up from the trash heap, dusted him off, and begun molding him to their service. 

His jailer's name is Madeline. His trainer's name is Jurgen. His sensei doesn't seem to have a name, and Michael wonders if that's by choice. The man with the guns is called Walter, and he smiles too much for someone who lives in a prison. His days consist of routines, all designed to infuse new skills into him. Martial arts. Languages. Computer programming. Etiquette. 

Other things he learns: the recoil of a gun in his hand, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the silent betrayals of body language. 

Things he never learns: why Jurgen dislikes him, what lies behind Madeline's dark eyes, how Walter finds it so easy to smile.  
 

* * *

  


The first time Operations speaks to him is eight months after his arrival in Section. He's in the middle of his daily martial arts training, sparring with a man whose arms roil with muscle and tattoos. Michael's muscles sing through their ache. He has learned to glory in the balance between motion and power, in the precise and controlled violence. He braces himself, pushes, and feels his opponent's feet leave the ground. 

When he looks up, he sees Operations standing at the edge of the mat. Michael waits, silently, motionless except for the air fighting its way in and out of his chest. 

"Good, Michael," Operations says, and walks away. Michael hadn't thought that Operations knew his name. From that point on, Operations appears on a regular basis, watching, but never reacting beyond an amused smile or an occasional word. Michael comes to look forward to Operations' rare approval, simply because it's the only thing that isn't part of his routine.  
 

* * *

  


The first time he speaks to Operations is after he's completed his two-year training period. He's summoned to the Perch. He has some idea of what's coming, having learned that being observant is the skill most likely to keep him alive. 

He comes to a halt outside the Perch's door and waits. He does not signal for entrance. Section does not bother with pleasantries. After a second, the door slides noiselessly open, and Michael steps inside. Operations leans against the ledge by the windows, his dark suit slightly rumpled. 

"We're sending you on a mission," he says, and then pauses, as if for a response. Michael can't imagine what he is supposed to say other than "Yes, sir," and surely Operations hears that enough times each day. The side of Operations' mouth crooks in apparent amusement at his continued silence. 

"You've done very well here, Michael." 

He hadn't expected that. "Thank you," he says, although he wonders how much of a compliment it truly is. Or was meant to be. 

"We have high hopes for you and your future in this organization." Operations sounds casual, and that convinces Michael that he's utterly serious. He is as much of a natural leader as Rene, but where Rene is inspiration and passion, Operations is subtlety and deflection. Michael doesn't mind being led, as long as the man he's following knows where he's going. 

Operations pushes himself lazily up from the ledge and steps over to where Michael is standing. Michael can smell his cologne, thick and musky. "You're not entirely happy here. I know that. I'm not a fool. But you could be. You have tremendous potential." 

"Thank you," he says again. He can feel the air around him echo every movement Operations makes, brushing almost imperceptibly against his skin. No one except his sensei and training partners have been this close to him in two years. 

"Briefing is in twenty minutes. Go get changed." Michael nods once, and turns to leave. Operations' voice follows him out the door. "And try not to get yourself killed."  
 

* * *

  


His first mission is a disaster, although it's no one's fault. It's the first time he learns that luck plays as much a part in success as training and preparation do. 

Six people depart for a rendezvous in a field outside Budapest. Five of them are killed almost instantly, and the only reason Michael is not among their number is because the concussion from a nearby grenade knocks him out, and their enemies are too hurried to be sure. When he wakes, Watanabe's body is draped over him like a blanket. Her blood has leaked out from her shredded torso, saturating his clothes. Her eyes show nothing but surprise. 

He shoves at her weakly, but he has lost a fair amount of his own blood, and the exertion makes spots swim across his vision. He tries again, flattening his palms against her shoulders and pushing. Her body flops off and to the side, intestines spilling like ribbons from the hole the grenade tore in her; as he passes out again, all he sees is her pale face. 

The sky has changed color by the time he regains consciousness again, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. He recognizes the signs of shock as his body begins to shut down. His heartbeat flutters wildly in his ears. His throat and mouth have gone completely dry, and he tries in vain to moisten his lips. 

He looks at his watch. 23:18. He's been lying there for eight hours. The bullet in his arm must not have hit a major blood vessel, or he'd certainly have bled out hours ago. He feels gingerly for an exit wound, but can't find one. Lodged in his bone, perhaps. It explains why he feels like his arm has been lanced through with a thousand jagged splinters. 

He wonders, as he gropes for his radio, if Section will come get him, whether the hours and money they have invested in him outweigh the trouble of a retrieval effort. It is the first time he has ever tried to calculate the value of his own life.  
 

* * *

  


Operations' first visit to Michael's quarters comes eight days after his retrieval from Budapest. Michael, lying on his bed, doesn't move when Operations opens the door to the eight-by-eight room. 

"Michael?" Operations sounds genuinely concerned, and Michael wonders if that means he's there to kill him. He's missed his medical checkups and failed to attend two training sessions, but he suspects that his refusal to talk to Madeline is what triggered Operations' visit. A last resort before writing off a once-promising asset. He doesn't answer, and hopes that his death will be quick. 

Operations leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets; his fingers create bumps and valleys in the fabric. "I was in Vietnam, you know." He doesn't offer any further explanation, and none is really required. Section is populated with many veterans, like Operations and Walter, and Michael has learned to recognize them. They all share a certain quiet knowledge, all marked by lessons they wish they hadn't learned. "You can't let it get to you, Michael. Our work is too important. Do you think the men who killed your team are lying awake in their beds, or do you think they're planning to do it again?" 

"It doesn't matter," Michael says, turning his head away. 

He hears movement, sound bouncing off the close walls. Operations sits down next to him. "It does matter. The group that you failed to stop? The bomb they planted killed a hundred and thirty-seven people, including fifteen children. Now that they've been successful, they'll begin thinking bigger. It won't be just one bomb next time. It'll be three. It'll be a shoulder-mounted missile launcher aimed at a commercial airplane. It'll be poison gas released into the subway at rush hour. It'll be a thousand casualties instead of a hundred. This is why we do what we do. It may feel like a losing battle, but the alternative is much worse." 

His voice is the voice of a priest delivering a sermon, full of conviction. A call to arms. Michael wants to answer, he truly does. He tries to find words to express himself, to describe how he felt when he looked into Watanabe's sightless eyes, how it felt to know that a bullet was lodged in his body, fragments poisoning his blood. And how he feels now, as if all of his training and his skill and his desire to live count for nothing in the face of blind greed and hatred. But all he can really say is, "It doesn't matter." 

When Operations leans down and kisses him, Michael is more surprised at his own hungry response than Operations' unexpected action. Always more observant of other people than of himself, he hadn't known how starved he was for contact, for something more than a blocked punch or a tap on the shoulder. Operations' mouth is steady, his hands are strong, and Michael feels himself thawing under their pressure. Kisses fade and dissolve into more kisses. Each caress stokes the fire building in him, and when Operations murmurs, "Yes, like that," the rush of heat makes him reckless. He opens his mouth, his arms, his legs, and lets himself be led.  
 

* * *

  


The first time Michael wakes up in bed with another man, he doesn't know what to say or do. The clock shows that only a few hours have passed since he fell into exhausted sleep. The motion that woke him was Operations pulling away, and he watches as the other man begins to dress. His movements are precise, as if he's arming for battle. 

Michael dares to ask his second question in two years. "What happens now?" 

Operations hands flash as he quickly knots his tie. "Go back to sleep. In the morning, check in at Medlab and make sure your arm is healing. Then you have an appointment with Madeline at 0900." 

Michael hadn't expected loving words, but Operations' business-like demeanor wakes dread in him. "This...will this happen again?" 

"It's not a good idea, Michael. I'm sure you understand why." 

He does understand, in a flash of humiliation that sickens him. "Because it wasn't true. You wanted me to return to active duty, and you thought this would motivate me." 

Operations looks down at him like a disappointed schoolteacher. "Nothing around here is true, except the most important things. Don't miss your session with Madeline. She doesn't like being stood up." And then his expression changes. Michael sees something that might be affection, or might simply be pity. He wants neither. When Operations lays a hand on top of Michael's head, he has to fight not to strike it away. "And we do have very high hopes for you. It would be a shame to lose you now." 

The door hisses shut, leaving him alone in his tiny room with its bare walls. 

He climbs out of bed and into the shower. The lingering ache in his body reminds him of what he'd been doing a few hours ago, as if he needed a reminder. Standing under the hot water, letting it wash away the traces of sweat and semen, he tries to objectively analyze what had happened. 

If Operations' seduction was designed to motivate him, to tie him to the man, then why would he drop the pretense and refuse any future encounters? No. It hadn't been that simple. 

It might have been a demonstration of power. Proof that his body and mind belonged to Section One and was theirs to do with as they pleased. Perhaps it was intended to anger him, as it had done, and force him into action -- any action -- rather than letting him withdraw into himself. 

Or perhaps it was what it seemed. Perhaps Operations meant the gentle words he spoke. Michael will never really know, and after all, it doesn't matter. Section is not a place for weaknesses. He will prove himself, even suspecting that it's exactly what they want him to do. He will bide his time until he can become the leader, executing their orders, but never forgetting his agenda. He will plan. He will scheme. He will wait. 

It is the first time he feels like he belongs in Section One. 


End file.
